The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

This poem, by Yeats, was mentioned in the movie that I saw tonight (Million Dollar Baby), and it reminded me of the first time that I read it – I was in grade ten and was asked to write a short essay on the –what now seems obvious- imagery. I ended up spending hours with the poem, sliding it off of my tongue and onto my fingers, playing it and pulling it and letting it move lazily around in my mouth, trying to find out where it lived and what it could have meant. I was enthralled. It was a particularly tough time in my life and I often pulled out the poem, carefully copied onto the inside cover of my English notebook, to help recall my own paradise. And when things become too difficult for me, I still make a point to remember Yeat’s Innisfree, now by memory, and am reminded that even just taking the time to think about peacefulness can be powerfully calming.

It also made me remember, for no special reason, how much I like being read to. I think the last time that anyone read to me was in grade 4, when my stepdad Gord used to come into my room every night before bed and read to me from the book Tuck Everlasting. I loved this time with him, letting his voice populate the text, giving it meaning and life and depth. If I were to design my ideal date, it would end with someone reading to me – poetry, a novel, from the back of a cereal box… doesn’t sharing something out loud like that seem like a wholly romantic thing to do? Or writing poetry, maybe? I was never very good at it. My poetry was young and self-indulgent, and probably would remain so if I still wrote it. The urge hasn’t struck me in a long, long time. I guess with the awareness that you’re not very good at something comes a complete lack of motivation to keep pursuing it. Maybe one day I’ll open up the old journals and try again – if only for my own eyes.

Today I am grateful for:
1. Perfectly toasted peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Eating one makes me feel like heaven took up residence in my life
2. The people in my life who are all safe. News that shakes the ground close to home always reminds you of how lucky you are to have everything that you do
3. The use of my body. Seeing the movie tonight made me feel incredibly fortunate for the ability to run, walk, make love, dance, or even just to hold someone’s hand. It’s so easy to take everything for granted – sometimes I need a wake up call